Not So Harry
by aquariusyoi
Summary: This Harry Potter isn't exactly Harry Potter, but Harold Kirkland.
1. The Discovery

**Prologue****: The Discovery**

Now, England wasn't in a very good mood. He was just returning from a (rather chaotic, putting it mildly) World Meeting

Seriously, what was the point of those when what everyone did was, well, pointless? Then again, it provided an output for the stress building up lately, courtesy of paperwork, so, yes, there was a point.

But not much.

Passing through Privet Drive (smiling fondly at the house labeled No. 4), he quickly frowned.

He felt resentment and fear from No. 4, Privet Drive, where five years ago he had followed Dumbledore here to give the small child a home.

The aura of abuse emanated, getting stronger and thicker as he got closer and closer to the house.

Red tiled roof and whitewashed concrete walls, the house was another cookiecutter house.

Screaming, yelling, fear and hate were the only things heard, were the only things felt behind the drew curtains, silhouettes moving around.

Of course, there was that thick, cloying scent of spoiling a child, but he chose to ignore it.

He shifted into a cat (a Scottish Fold, to be exact), and leaped into the wall, keeping an eye on the house of hate and fear.

Not soon later, the door opened and three people - one large and fat, one tall and horse-faced, one overweight, obviously snobbish kid.

They strode towards the red car in the porch, starting it up and leaving without a second thought.

He frowned. There should be another boy, one that had a lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead that had an aura of darkness surrounding it.

He leaped down from the wall again, pushing his small feline body through the ajar door.

He found the living room, a room that had two sofas, a television and framed pictures on the marble mantelpiece above it. None had the kid he was looking for, the one he was _so sure _he had laid down at the doorstep that fateful night.

He hadn't been sure if it was okay, putting a baby out at night and expecting his relatives to accept him into their family, but Dumbledore was insistent and he had no choice but to follow.

Dumbledore had known - or assumed to, as he couldn't know about his nationhood - Arthur Kirkland for five years already, trusting him (citizens trust their nations, not too much but enough) on sight.

He was going on a Dumbledore tangent. Focus, England.

He located a trail of magic, faint and shimmering to the small closet where they definitely put their winter clothes in.

Or not.

He found a small boy - yes, it was him, _finally _\- in the dark closet, sobbing but not too loudly, as if afraid that someone might hear, gingerly clutching at his sides, as if it hurt.

He watched him like that for a while, until the boy with jet black hair and skewed glasses and a scar atop this forehead sobbed himself to sleep, shaking and wincing as he laid on his ribs.

He shifted, yet again, into the 23 year old (outwards) with thick eyebrows and blond, messy hair and gently picked the boy up, careful to not disturb him in his slumber.

The nation of England then Jumped back into his house with a little child in tow.

When they got home, the Dursleys would not notice the empty closet for a while, until the time came for Aunt Petunia to wake the child up.

England made a good, strong cup of tea.

The sun was setting in the west, painting the sky a beautiful array of colours. The child slept soundly in the rather large cot that England had had for some centuries.

Hey, at least it held.

The child awoke with a start. He immediately knew that he was in a different place, different from what he had always knew in the past five years of his life. Beyond that was a wall of green light.

He also knew, instinctively, that he was safe.

England leaned over, the tea steeping on the coffee (tea) table. He examined the young child, the jet black hair, the green eyes, the pallid, malnourished body. The child squirmed in his gaze.

He scowled. The child flinched.

Bloody hell.

He would have a nice, long talk with Dumbledore about not placing unwelcome children in their relatives' houses.

Harry was scared, no matter how safe he felt.

It wasn't about the weird man, nor was it about the large, clean room he was in.

No, it was about the sudden change of environment, from the cramped closet to the spacious room, from the house to this... house? It was quite large, wasn't it?

No matter the change, it was better than his situation before.

The man spoke, asking what his name was.

He was Harry, Harry Potter.

The man asked if he wanted a different name, now that he wasn't in the care of the Dursleys anymore.

Did he? Maybe. How, then? Was he really not in their care anymore?

The man replied that yes, he wasn't, he was now in his care. And if he wanted to change his name, he could change it to Harold Kirkland, Kirkland being his last name.

Did he accept? If he didn't, he could always go back.

Of course he accepted.

And from the day on, Harry Potter was no more, but there was a new Harold Kirkland instead.

So I wrote this to battle the infamous writer's block. It didn't work for the other but it worked for this.

I'll probably follow the usual, updating like crazy for the first ten chapters and slowing down for the rest, but then again I might not. This doesn't have very concrete plot, possibly just focusing on the life of "Harold Kirkland".

See you!


	2. Capitalization

**Chapter 1: Capitalization**

9 year old Harold couldn't have had a better life in the past three years.

England - as he had explained to him a year after his adoption - treated him well, so much better than the Dursleys. Most importantly, he didn't keep him in a cramped cupboard and actually fed him, though the damage to his growing body had been already done.

He still shrank back when voices were raised, when his name was called out unexpectedly or when he made a mistake - no matter how minor or how much England told him it was normal. But it was wearing off, so all was well and normal.

As normal as life could be when you were raised by a nation.

In the past three years, the door had been broken down no less than ten times (he lost count and didn't bother to after the seventeenth), he cooed over by the female nations more times than he cared (he appreciated the affection, though) and "kidnapped" to France's house at least twice.

Needless to say, England was not amused.

Harold could only watch, amused and slightly terrified, as the two nations separated by the Channel beat each other up.

England had told him that he was a wizard, one that did something great when he was very very small, but he was still a child, a child that needed his childhood free of swarming paparazzi and thingie-de-bobs. Though he didn't know what both of them meant.

As of now, he was in the kitchen, cooking (_someone _had to do that) his dinner that England had insisted that they should eat out - it was Harold's birthday - but he had wanted to cook at home and England relented.

It wasn't as if he was going to burn the whole house down, unlike England who actually managed once, as Canada had told him while flipping pancakes once.

He knew that humans like him lived just a fleeting moment, blink and you'll disappear life unlike nations, and England would watch him grow, from a mere child to a teenager to a young adult to an adult and finally old age and death, and he didn't want him to worry, didn't want him to be sad.

He had brought the issue up with him once, at the breakfast table (England cooked great breakfasts), newspaper ink blotting fingers black and steam rising from freshly brewed tea. The motion of sipping his tea halted for a split second, then he set down the cup, leaning in and frowning.

Yes, he had said, nations are immortal, unless one kills another or if civil war tears the nation apart, and yes, humans do live for far shorter than they do.

But, he continued, what is short and fleeting is what is the most treasured. The brightest flames burn the shortest. The largest stars die the fastest.

Over the course of their existence, nations have seen countless men and women and everything in between, born, live, die over and over again. They felt sadness for each and every one of them, but you become numb to something that has happened over and over again and you cannot feel the same calibre of emotions as you did the first.

But Harold, do remember that you love and are loved.

With that, he tousled his hair affectionately and left, leaving the boy gazing at the retreating figure.

Was it not? All things are born, they live and they die. Nothing is an exception and nothing will be. The difference was just that some lived longer some lived shorter, some lived out meaning and some did not.

And he smiled.

\--

When he finished dinner with England (it was wonderful, without France or Prussia or America or any of the others bursting in), the sky was dark with smatterings of silver dust twinkling in the sky that he never would've thought he would see in England, much less near London.

England had left, claiming that the paperwork was "sky high" (and it was) and that he needed to finish them.

So in the moments following his retirement to his room, Harold stared at the night sky outside, the dark velvet of the night contrasting with the bright stars, the silence punctuated with cicada chirps.

\--

London was desperate. After the Great Fire, it needed to find a body, one that had magic that rivaled even England's.

Though most of the older and wiser wizards would qualify (and they would gladly), it needed someone young, as the history of London was just too much and overwriting memories was dangerous if there were too much of the original.

No, it needed a young body, a young mind, one that hadn't had decades of experience in it.

One of magic.

And it found him.

\--

Sleep came rather easily for Harold, as drinking a sizable amount of tea did to anyone after emptying their bladders.

As he was about to drift off into the arms of Morpheus, pain, _pain _with such intensity that he hadn't ever felt before, not even when Dudley had pushed him off the side of the slide on the rare day that he could go out racked him, tearing a scream from his throat.

It felt that a few dozen daggers were stabbing him from inside out, but another force was keeping them in, pushing them in. A headache bloomed in the back of his head.

His door was roughly shoved open to show England, panicked by the blood-curdling scream. But he could only watch, helpless, as he clutched at the bedsheets, nearly tearing them apart.

After he didn't seem in such pain anymore, he padded quietly over, worried.

The boy was clearly in pain, eyes screwed tightly together, twitching occasionally, eyes rolling frantically beneath his eyelids.

But what drew his attention was London. The power of his capital, one that he never thought he would've experienced again.

Capitals were very much personified, like nations, but they were much, much rarer, as usually the nation would take care of everything required, so capitals weren't much needed. And they were not so immortal, compared to nations. They didn't die of old age, no. They were much more hardy than humans. But they could be killed if their bodies were completely annihilated.

England had a personification of London once, one that he saw as a son. But when the damned fire came roaring through the streets of London, he was caught up in it, trapped under a burning beam as the flames came closer and closer, until... well.

He didn't know that this could happen. It had never happened before, but then again, anything could happen in life if there were personified nations and wizards and witches.

He left, leaving young Harold - London - to get used to a new body, a new history by himself. He would address the matter in the morning, when both of them were suitably teaffinated.

\--

Harold was assaulted with a series of memories, piling up, up, higher, more, of the Romans, of Rome, of the Viking raids, Denmark, Norway and Sweden, of Normandy and the medieval times, the Black Death, large, swollen buboes, blood and black gangrene, the Great Fire, raging and roaring, under a heavy weight. Bombings. Screaming. War and conflict.

And he was London, the capital city of England.

\--

The sun rose again, illuminating the world with rays of light and dispelling the darkness.

The quiet mansion, bathed in the light, smelled of tea, the aroma circulating in the air.

Both of them had, miraculously, woken up early, as soon as the sun peeked above to horizon far, far away.

"Now, how to start?"

\--

Goodness me. This story just got favourited and followed by PyruxDeltax, readership and (followed by) aranley. Not to mention the author favouriting and following by readership. Thank you all so much!

I have a tendency to start scenes with descriptions, don't you think? I can't really start with anything else.

Please drop a review!

See you!


	3. Hogwarts

**Chapter 2: Hogwarts**

Two years passed in the blink of an eye.

Immortals, nations or not, often experience time in a different way than mortals. For them, a little while could be a few decades. Perhaps what they think was just an instant could be hours upon hours for most other people.

Two years, from nine years old to eleven, was merely a blink of an eye. But may things happened to young London in this time.

He had first noticed his hair turning a lighter shade, from black to dark brown to light brown a week after the incident. A day later, his eyebrows were thicker than before (thankfully, not as thick as England's) and he a few inches had been added to him.

The worst thing that had happened to him (according to Paris, if not, France) was maybe his fashion sense.

But those two had the most flamboyant dressing sense, so it wasn't really too bad. Sweatpants and t-shirts were fine at home, and you didn't really need to dress up like them to go out.

Other than that, a large burn scar had appeared on his left arm. It was from the Fire, the burns the original London had got.

But no more of this sadness.

It was dark. It wasn't quite morning yet, as the sun had yet to rise from the east, but it was certainly the 30th of August when an owl came scratching at the glass panel, yellow parchment envelope in its talons.

Yawning and cursing (bloody hell, who would send a letter at such an ungodly hour!), the now-eleven year old boy opened the window.

The owl flew in and settled on the edge of the table, dropping the envelope.

Picking it up, he rubbed his eyes and skimmed the address written in green.

_Mr. H. Kirkland_

_The Kirkland Mansion, London_

_Second-floor Bedroom_

What?

A wax crest sealed the envelope. Red wax, an elaborate "H" on a shield, a lion, raven, snake and badger, the school motto Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus. His half asleep mind translated that to "never tickle a sleeping dragon".

Where had he seen that before?

Oh. He was suddenly awake now.

The owl was long gone, flying out of the open window.

Opening the envelope, he began to read the letter.

\--

England was roused awake by the aroma of tea.

He turned, and tossing back the covers, glanced at the clock.

6:15 in the morning.

Just who was awake at this hour?

Oh right, there was only him and London in the house. Maybe his other brothers if they came over, but he knew that they would sleep to at least noon.

Why was he awake at _now _of all times?

Not being able to resist the smell of fresh tea, he made his way down.

The first thing he saw (except London) was the opened letter sitting on the table.

The green address stood out against the yellowing paper.

For a moment, he racked his brain. It seemed so familiar... it was London's (the physical one) eleventh birthday today, was it not?

Then it struck him. Hogwarts.

Well, he did have to receive magical education. It just came as a surprise. He had been so accustomed to the old London that had already been to Hogwarts, so he forgot that this London was just eleven.

Harold was just eleven, if you ignored the memories of London. He felt sorry, so sorry for forgetting that.

The boy - how had he not noticed that he was just barely taller than Sealand? - turned, and offered the nation a mug of strong tea.

"Oh. It seems that you've seen the letter."

He nodded silently.

"Is it okay if I go?"

What was he asking? Of _course_ it was okay. In fact, he _had _to go, and no, he wasn't shooing him away. He just needed the education, and Hogwarts, although it had declined lately, was still a great school!

Picking up the piece of parchment, Harold read through it again, although he had read it over about seven times already.

England would take him to wherever school supplies were to be bought, yes, but the school itself was in Scotland.

Allistor didn't really have a grudge against Harold, but he had plenty against England. He just hoped nothing embarrassing would happen there, in a school full of kids.

Gosh, he was speaking like an old man. Or maybe not.

\--

After a hastily thrown together breakfast (the toaster took _way _too long), both of them, a nation and his capital set out to the United Kingdom's largest shopping district with a (two) pinch of green powder and a fireplace.

The dust clung to London's clothes as he tumbled out of the fireplace. Coughing (whose idea was it to _travel _through _fireplaces_?), he was amazed by the sight.

A large white building reflecting sunlight rose at the end of the alley, squat, haphazardly placed shops lining the streets. It had a certain homey feel to it, the street already busy despite the early hour.

Gringotts made an impression on him as a large, cold, unforgiving building. The goblin eyed the duo suspiciously when they asked for the Kirkland vault, but he took them there anyway.

He bought his wand first, as it usually took the longest.

The bell tinkled as they pushed the door open. The shop was piled with boxes of wands, more behind the counter.

The old man greeted them in a soft tone of voice, eyeing them up and down, snapped his fingers and let the measures work as he dug through the piles of wands.

London watched in amazement as the tape measures flew around seemingly by themselves.

A few moments later, the old wizard produced a box and tenderly gave the wand inside to Harold. He gave it a wave.

The windows shattered. He flinched. Arthur blinked.

Second wand.

The lights went out.

Third.

The shop flooded.

And so on and on until the nineteenth, when the shop was in tatters but the old wizard grew more and more excited with each mishap.

The wand was a 13 inch wand, of birch and phoenix. When he waved it, bright sparkles came out of it, twirling and lighting up the dark shop.

After a few words of advice from Ollivander, they thanked him, paid and left the shop.

He would have to get his books next, in Flourish and Blotts. Nothing of note happened there.

Madam Malkim's was slightly more interesting, though. He met a platinum blond boy that looked the same age as him, but held himself haughtily. He asked, unsurprisingly, about his blood status the moment he was in vicinity of him. He didn't actually know, but England had told him once that his mother was a Muggleborn and his father a pureblood so he answered accordingly. The boy seemed to be satisfied with the answer.

He did, of course, try to lessen his prejudice towards Muggles and Muggleborns. They couldn't really control their heritage, after all. He didn't know if he really listened, but he had done what he could do.

At Eyelop's Owl Emporium, he got a large snowy owl, which he named Hedwig. She was affectionate, seemingly knowing about his status as a not-so-normal person.

Leaving Diagon Alley, England made both of them a cup of tea. It was a custom by now, that whoever prepared breakfast didn't do lunch, and it was, for now, fine.

\--

The days passed, and it was the first of September.

King's Cross Station was full with people (and humanoids), non-magicals and magicals alike, waving goodbye and running through walls.

Platform 9 was crowded, the red steam train (it really wasn't good for the environment) puffing steam, first years hugging their family goodbye, older students waving them off.

It was ten to eleven, and he had to hurry if he wanted to secure a good seat in the train, what with the whole of Hogwarts in it.

London wasn't nervous. No, he wasn't. It was just a little too hot here. His palms felt sweaty, and he kept rubbing them on the rough denim of his jeans.

England patted his head, and "cheerio"ed him. He numbly replied back, and when he came back to his senses, England had long disappeared into the crowd.

He could hear a woman speaking to her child - or children, likely older - about not bringing back a toilet seat when he lugged his trunk upup into the larger-on-the-inside train.

He sincerely hoped not. School toilets were incredibly dirty, magic or not.

He quickly scanned the compartments on his left and right of him while making his way down the aisle - not the church's, shut up, brain - of the train.

Aha. There it was. An empty compartment. Thank god.

Settling down, he curled up on the seat (quite comfy) and read his coursebooks for the year.

He found them quite easy, as England had taught him most (if not more) that was required. He would have a little trouble remembering the names and uses for things, though...

But that was to be expected.

The door was slid open, rattling slightly. A redhead - he identified him as one of the Weasleys - peeked in.

"Oh - er, can I come in? Everywhere else's full."

"Of course. It feels a little bad, really, taking up a whole compartment by myself. Do take a seat."

Gratefully, the Weasley - what was his name again? Reno? Ronald? Ah yes, Ronald - entered, plopping on the seat beside him, near the window where the scenery was whipping by.

"So - uh, what's your name?"

The boy was eager to have new friends, so it seemed - he was a first year too, judging by the badge, or the lack of it.

"Harold Kirkland. Are you a Weasley? Red hair, freckles?"

He grinned awkwardly.

"Yeah. It's that obvious isn't it? I'm Ronald Weasley, but call me Ron - I'm don't like people calling me that."

Then it shifted to surprise.

"Kirkland - _the _Kirkland family? The oldest and most prestigious pureblood family? The family that mysteriously disappeared from the world a few centuries back?"

Damn. That boy had a lot of questions.

"Yeah... Apparently myancestors-" he stifled a laugh bubbling up, "decided that 'no, we're too famous', so the decided to withdraw from it."

In a way, it was true. England and his brothers had become some sort of celebrities back then - a high-up Ministry position, money and rumors and spectaculations about how they virtually never got older, even after five years. Naturally, they had loosened ties with the magical world after that, and the "Kirkland family" disappeared.

Weasley didn't ask any more questions after that, for which he was thankful for, but stared at him, seemingly awed, mouth slightly open, for which he wasn't thankful for.

After what seemed an eternity of silence (which was saying a lot, as it was _him_), he coughed slightly. He had to get the atmosphere roused, somehow.

"Er, so, are your family all wizards? I mean, I'm not that kind of person, but I'd like to know, y'know."

He snapped back to attention now, nodding.

"Oh yes, the my family's pureblood. I've got five brothers and a little sister, so the house is a little... crowded. We can't aff- uh, we haven't got a large house yet. It think there was a Muggle accountant somewhere along the family tree, but we never speak about him. What about you?"

He looked at him, expectant. Oh well, there goes.

"Well, I'm an only child, but I have a few uncles that my father always complains about. They seem to get up in the weirdest shenanigans they can."

Oh yes, national shenanigans, feat the Kirkland brothers, in a bar. What with Scotland drinking a whole leg (or more) of whisky (the Scottish good stuff, not the American or Irish crap, straight from his mouth), England just getting drunk and questioning his religion, Wales out cold and mumbling "sheep" and Northen Ireland egging them on. Or stripping, if he was also pissed. And then there was Ireland on some days, having a drinking contest with Scotland while glaring at her brothers.

Needless to say, he wouldn't be surprised by anything else that happens in bars anymore. He had seen his fair share of them.

But he didn't say that to Ron. For obvious reasons.

Ron had tried to turn his rat - he narrowed his eyes at it, there was something off with it - yellow, but it hadn't worked. A brunette - Hermione, it was - had asked for a missing toad. The sweet trolley witch had went and gone and there was a small mountain of snacks between them.

The door was pushed open again, rather roughly this time, and a platinum blond - hey, wasn't that the one he bad saw in the shop? - entered, with two bodyguards flanking him.

He flinched when he saw London's eyes (not the Ferris Wheel) staring at him. Slightly shaken (but not outwardly, as heirs must not show weakness), he drew up and looked around the compartment. And then there was a "Weasley" speech that he tuned out, until the boy's topic turned to him.

"What's your name?" he asked, rather snobbishly.

Blinking, he answered, "Harold Kirkland. And before you ask, yes."

His eyes widened a fraction of an inch, but he quickly composed himself.

He put out a hand for him to shake.

"Well, you could acquaint yourself with better folks than this... Weasley."

"Only if you stop degrading everyone else. They're humans too, you know."

He didn't bother to mention that he wasn't exactly human, but that wasn't important.

Malfoy smirked.

"We'll see."

And they shook hands, Malfoy with a tighter grasp, London inclining his head slightly.

"Well, I'd better go. See you in Slytherin."

He left, robes billowing behind him.

Ron was staring at him with shock, and a little - no, a _lot - _of betrayal.

"You - you -"

"I what? I merely made a friend. He could be useful, and making a friend is better than making an enemy."

He had no words to reply, only huffing and crossing his arms.

The ride later was silent.

\--

The train turned a bend, and suddenly, they were at the station in Hogsmeads, not too far from Hogwarts.

He could hear the loud cry of "Firs' years here!" over the crowd, and followed the bellowing voice, which led him to a man taller than even Russia, standing at around 8 feet tall. He was probably a half giant, he surmised.

He led them to a huge lake reflecting the moonlight. Four to a boat, with the occasional three, and the half giant took a whole boat to himself. Just as well, as he took up the whole space on it.

They rowed, and after what seemed like a moment later, the castle of Hogwarts appeared, awing the first years into silence. London, too, but he quickly got over it.

The original London had attend the school before, some years after its founding. The school hadn't changed a bit on the outside.

He suddenly became more excited for what was inside. It would have changed, no matter how slow wizards were on uptake. Maybe they had a different Sorting method now, with the Founders all six feet under. Maybe they had took down, put up paintings. Maybe the Houses would be a little more comfy.

They neared the bank, and upon the gentle impact of the boat on dry land, he hopped out.

Most of the students were still staring with awe at the architecture. Even he couldn't deny that it _was_ majestic.

He felt a sudden, nearly inconspicuous lurch in his stomach.

Oh right. He wasn't in England anymore. He was in Scotland.

It would go away soon, so it wasn't much of a problem.

They followed Professor Mcgonagall, who had appeared out of the large doors, into the large entrance that had yet another set of doors - to the Great Hall, he supposed.

The speech was what was expected.

She opened the doors and led them in.

The Great Hall was lit with floating candles, the ceiling above softly shining with silver stars. He heard a girl - Hermione, from the tone - muttering excitedly under her breath about reading about that in Hogwarts: A History.

On the raised platform, a ragged and dirty hat was placed on a stool, in the middle.

When the murmurs had quietened down, the hat opened its flap, or whatever that was, and started to sing.

London was a little taken aback by that, but he reasoned that it was magic.

Of course.

Names were called, first years sorted, brief silences before loud bellows of any of the four houses. Clapping.

Then it we him.

"Kirkland, Harold," Professor Mcgonagall called out.

He walked - _not_ half jogged out of nervousness, mind you - up to the stool and jammed the hat onto his head, hands shaking.

The cloth draped across his eyes, and all he could think was _wow I wonder if I'll get lice_.

_Now, that's impolite, London._

He flinched.

_Oh yes, I know. Now, who were you before London? I'll need to sift through the memories... oh!_

Goddamn the hat for its ability to speak and peek into his mind. He hadn't learned Occlumency... yet.

_Harry Potter! _

He would like to keep the memories of his life before England found him _down and away_, thank you very much.

The hat was silent again. Then, just as he was about to ask it what was wrong, it spoke again.

_Which house do you want to go into, London?_

Good. Finally he could forget the memories in peace. But why was the hat asking? Didn't it choose for them?

A light chuckle could be heard.

_To be honest, I think you'd fit into Slytherin, what with your history and all. Then again, most, if not all countries and capitals alike would fit into Slytherin, especially the English brothers, Empire and all. Gryffindor isn't a bad option either. Bravery was what saw you through the Viking raids, and even now. Ravenclaw too, as without wisdom, the Allies could never have won the Wars. Hufflepuff... loyalty. Loyalty to England. Loyalty to your friends. Even when everyone left. You fit in all, so I am giving you a choice._

He had _not _expected the Hat to speak this much, of such wisdom that could only be acquired over the years, decades, centuries. He wondered what it had seen.

Unfortunately, these word also dredged unpleasant memories - London's, not Harold's - up. Large men with large battleaxes and swords, clearing a red trail through a village. Rain, dusty battlefields, gunshots and muskets and yelling, _death_. Bombs, planes, screaming, collapsing, _death. _

What would he choose? He had nothing to lose, and everything to lose.

Maybe the temporary friend he had made in the train. He would be a Gryffindor, as his family had always been. Maybe the bookish brunette now in Gryffindor. She seemed kind, if not bookwormish. Maybe Draco Malfoy, the platinum blond that tried too hard to seem like the heir of a well-known family.

_Well?_

And the Hall was filled with claps once again with the cry of "RAVENCLAW!"

\--

All right, so maybe he had better houses to be in. But Ravenclaw seemed nice, unlike the slight hostility of the Slytherin table. It wasn't quite raucous, as opposed to the uproar at Gryffindor when a new first year was added to their ranks. It was kind enough without being over, unlike to the fuss at which the prefects welcomed the new first years at Hufflepuff.

But he couldn't change his house even if he wanted to, right? Blue looked great, anyway, and he had access to the library in the common room other than the Library, where Madam Pince ruled over.

The prefect had given him a slight nod, followed by a "welcome to Ravenclaw". The other, older, students were conversing with themselves, and sometimes one would strike up small talk with him.

It was rather welcoming to him. Gryffindors wouldn't think so, but then they were the rowdiest. Slytherins would have scoffed at the amount of Muggleborns and half-bloods they had, but non-purebloods often had a different point of view of the world, most that purebloods would never have thought of, inventions that they would never have dared, so there they went. Hufflepuffs might be a little miffed at the less than warm atmosphere, but Ravenclaws (from what he had heard), threw the best parties in the spacious common room overlooking the Lake.

Food appeared (he silently thanked the house elves), and the opening feast began.

\--

The prefect led them up the ever-changing stairs, cautioning them of the trick steps, before they stopped before the large, eagle-shaped brass knocker. He knocked on it.

The knocker opened its beak, speaking, asking a riddle.

_"__Who are you when you die?"_

This question... he had heard it from a court jester before, as he lay on his sickbed, close to death.

He hadn't answered it. He couldn't, not even after seeing so many deaths.

But now, he had the answer to it. London had the answer to it.

"You are the happiest person that you may ever hope to be."

Was it not? The relief he had saw in the eyes of the soldiers as they neared the border of life and death. Terminally ill patients, the one last sigh, just before the heartbeat monitor went flat. London, when the flames had suddenly not hurt anymore.

The door swung open.

Only the prefect, who had quickly recovered and composed himself again, albeit a little shakily, moved. The others gaped at him.

"Now, now, let's get a move on! You'll have to solve riddles like that to enter the common room, so if you can't, you'll just have to stay around until someone else does. Good work there, that first year."

London only gave a small smile back.

This was just the start of the first year.

\--

**I guess I've procrastinated enough, so here you go! An extra long chapter!**

**I actually took a few days to type this out, bit by bit, a hundred words or so at a time. School's a bitch and homework a slave-driver.**

**Basically, this chapter was a mosaic of random ideas, late night thoughts and random highs and depression (I probably have bipolar disorder. Or borderline personality disorder). A _lot _of personal headcanons and changes to most HP canon things.**

**The riddle was a little, sudden "bling" that I hadn't thought out very well yet, but I put it in there cause I felt like it wasn't deep enough. For all of you out there, I do _not_ condone suicide. Please, if you're struggling, please, please, seek help. I can't promise you that everything will be fine and dandy and rainbows and unicorns after that, though, but at least you could cheer up someone else just by being there. For me, writing on here has been great, as I know that there's someone out there reading what I write, maybe waiting for a new chapter, maybe. It helps.**

**Thank you all for your favorites and follows!**

**See you! **


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